


Bruised Knuckles and Silver Platters

by polkadotPotter



Series: gabi's newsie fics [3]
Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: BUT HAPPY ENDING I PROMISE, Fist Fights, Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Slow Burn, Spot Conlon is an angry little man, Stoner Race, Stoner Racetrack Higgins, Stoner Spot Conlon, and most of it is NOT angst, i'm posting this at 3am, i'm sorry race, idk what else to tag so uhh enjoy i guess, idk why sprace are stoners in all my fics, kind of, sorry im projecting lmao, there's a little bit of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-14
Updated: 2019-10-14
Packaged: 2020-12-16 00:44:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21027461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/polkadotPotter/pseuds/polkadotPotter
Summary: Spot Conlon is a whole lot of trouble in a small body.Racetrack Higgins is an angel, but not without trouble of his own.





	Bruised Knuckles and Silver Platters

**Author's Note:**

> lmao disclaimer i know nothing about baseball so sorry for that one part where i try to talk about baseball
> 
> also slight trigger warning towards the end for referenced child abuse and homophobia. also, a few slurs are used but only to recall something that was said.

Spot hissed as he pressed his fingertips against his cheekbone, a reddish-blue color from being hit not that long ago. There were a few scrapes on his cheek, accompanying the forming bruises, and his knuckles were cut in two places and bleeding into the wet paper towel that Spot had pressed against them, hating how it made his hands burn because apparently there was no cold water in the bathroom sinks, and wasn't it supposed to be the other way around? Either way, Spot's knuckles hurt and the stupid warm water in the sink was barely helping.

Of course, he wouldn't have been in this predicament if the Delancey's were capable of being decent human beings. They were always going after Spot, trying to work him up, teasing and laughing and tripping, and Spot was not having it. It wasn't a rare occurrence for Spot to get in a fight, especially not with the Delancey brothers, but they'd soaked him pretty good this time, on account of Spot having jumped at the pair without so much as a plan. Despite that small hiccup, however, Spot had still walked away the victor. "Serves 'em right," Spot grumbled, kicking at a stall door and watching in satisfaction as it bounced harshly against the frame of the stall and jerked back. Spot huffed and did it again.

"Hey, are you okay?" a voice startled Spot back into reality. Quickly, Spot turned away from the voice, crossing his arms.

"Yeah, fuck off," he answered gruffly, making a move to grab his backpack. He wasn't in the mood to deal with a stranger who wanted an explanation from him for something he didn't want to talk about, didn't want any unprecedented advice from somebody who thought they were better than him just because they didn't have a black eye or a swollen lip. 

"Sorry," the voice amended, the word coming fast and loud. There was a pause, and Spot glared at the floor as he made to turn around and move past the guy when- "Just- er, are you bleeding?"

Spot growled, turning around instead to glare at the newcomer. "I said, fuck off." He made eye contact with the boy, narrowing his eyes threateningly. "I ain't afraid to bust my knuckles again." This was a lie- Spot did not want to bust his knuckles again, because that would fucking hurt, but the boy, who had messy blonde curls and shiny blue eyes, still inhaled sharply at the rude demand and looked down.

"Uh-" the boy took a slight step back when Spot angrily let out a breath, "well I was just- I mean, if you want, I have a first aid kit in my backpack?" 

Spot paused, glaring at the boy, who looked almost ready to crawl out of his own skin he seemed so uncomfortable. "Really," he said, unamused. 

The boy nodded, eyes flitting up toward Spot's face nervously and then somewhere to the side of him. "It's not much, just like- gauze and some bandaids and neosporin but if you wanted I can-"

"I don't want nothing from you," Spot huffed, turning around again. He swung his backpack over his shoulder, but the kid was blocking the door, so he turned to one of the stalls. "Now get the fuck out so I can piss." He didn't need to piss at all really, he just wanted this kid to leave him alone. 

"Right," the boy muttered, and Spot slammed the door of the stall closed, effectively ending the conversation. There was silence in the bathroom for a minute, then a short moment when Spot could hear the other boy doing his business, and a slightly longer moment when the sink was running. After that, it wasn't long before he heard the door creak open and swing close, leaving Spot alone again in the bathroom. 

Spot waited a few moments to make sure he was really alone before unlocking the stall and opening the door, heading back over to the sink. Annoyed, Spot threw the wet paper towel he had been holding into the trash, reaching for a new one when something sitting atop the sink caught his eye.

A first aid kit.

For a moment, all Spot did was look at it. It was a small plastic box with a red cross drawn on in marker. Did that kid fucking leave this here for him? After he told him to fuck off? For a moment, Spot was angry, annoyed that some random boy he'd never met before had the audacity to just do that, to offer his help and then still give it when it was rejected. Who the hell did he think he was?

But then, Spot reached out and grabbed it off the sink. Because he might as well, he thought, if that kid had left it here for him. He was still mad, and he didn't have to like it- but at least he'd have something on his cuts. 

But still. Fuck that kid.

*****

Spot didn't see the kid after that, and almost nearly forgot about him, until he was suddenly being chased down in the hall by the guy. "Hey!" he heard, turning at the call only to see the curly haired blonde boy from only about a week prior. "Hey, dude, wait!" Spot clenched his jaw.

"What do you want," he growled, glaring at the kid as he jogged up to him. 

The kid looked anxious, wringing his hands as he glanced at Spot, breathing heavy for some reason. "Do you have that first aid kit still?" he asked, chewing hard on his lower lip. "I- I know you said you didn't want me to give it to you but I left it and- okay, you know that, but did you take it with you at all? Because I kind of need it and-"

Spot help up a hand, effectively shutting the boy up. "Yeah, I got it," he huffed. "Why d'you need it, huh? Got another poor stranger you need to help?"

The boy's nose twitched in what seemed to be either anger or annoyance- and that was a new one, Spot thought, because he'd only looked at Spot with nervousness before. "I need it for my friend, if you must know," he said. He sounded impatient. Spot raised an eyebrow.

"Yeah?" he asked, and the boy gave him a look. Spot shrugged and slung his backpack off his shoulder, reaching into the big pouch and pulling out the kit. "Stuff's mostly unused. I only took what I needed."

The boy looked at him and Spot hated how grateful his expression was. "Thank you," he breathed, before turning and suddenly racing down the hall back the way he had come. Spot blinked after him, befuddled. 

"Well that was fuckin' weird," he muttered to himself. But also, as he watched the kid weave his way through the crowded hall, he felt a spark of interest. Who in the hell was he helping now? And more importantly, who was it and why did they need help?

Now, Spot would be one of the last people to consider himself a kind or caring soul, but what he couldn't deny was his very human curiosity. And call him a hypocrite, but he really wanted to follow that kid and see his friend, see if he had more bruises on his face or his knuckles, see if he knew the guy, see if he knew who the guy'd been fighting. 

So Spot turned and went after the blonde boy, pushing past people in the crowded hallway as he followed him. It was hard to keep him in sight, given his short stature, but by the time the boy veered off into a boys bathroom, Spot had almost caught up with him. He paused, just outside the door, before pushing it open and walking in.

The blonde looked up when he heard the door open, eyes wide when he noticed that it was Spot. He was knelt on the floor in front of a brown haired boy who, even sitting down, Spot could tell was the tallest of the three of them. The brown haired boy was leaning against the wall, a trail of blood leaking from his nose and both of his eyes looking darker than they should. Spot was pretty sure his name was David.

Snorting, Spot raised an eyebrow. "Damn, who'd you fight?"

David furrowed his brow. "Nobody," he said, looking toward the blonde boy. "Race, why's Spot Conlon here?" he asked in a whisper that was very much not an actual whisper.

"Is that his name?" the blonde -Race, apparently- asked back, in a regular voice. Race was staring at Spot, like he was trying to figure out what exactly he was doing standing there in the bathroom. But then David sniffled, and Race quickly turned back to him, pulling some wipes from the first aid kit and dabbing at the other's face. "What _are_ you doing here?" Race asked, and for a moment Spot thought he was talking to David before he realized that the question was directed at him.

Spot crossed his arms. "Was curious," he answered gruffly, fixing his gaze on David. "For someone who wasn't fighting nobody, you sure as hell look like it."

"I wasn't fighting anyone," the boy assured him, sounding frustrated as he pushed Race's hands away from his face. "I got jumped." Spot raised his eyebrows.

"What, a surprise attack?" he asked, and David glanced at him nervously before nodding. "Let me guess. Delanceys."

"Those are the brothers, yeah?" Race asked, looking back at Spot for a moment. 

"Yeah." Spot paused and leaned back against the tile wall. "So what'd you do to get jumped?"

"For someone who wasn't to keen on answering questions when he was black and blue, you sure are asking a lot of them now," Race announced. It wasn't malicious, at least, it didn't sound like it was supposed to be- just a fact, really. 

"Race!" the David protested, probably because he knew Spot's reputation, whereas Race seemed to be rather oblivious.

"He didn't punch me last time," Race shrugged, as if that was usually how people addressed Spot. He twisted around, not even fully turning, just looking at Spot over his shoulder. "You ain't gonna punch me now, are you?"

Spot looked back at him for a moment before answering, "No." Then he looked back to David. "So what'd you do to get jumped?" he asked again.

Race opened his mouth again, but the other boy stopped him with a look. "I didn't do anything except kiss another boy," he grumbled, and suddenly he was reaching up to swipe at his eyes. Spot frowned, tilting his head.

"What, you two?" he asked, eyes flitting back and forth between them.

"So what if it was _us two_?" Race asked, narrowing his eyes. "You gotta problem with that?"

"It wasn't," David amended, sending Race a look. "We aren't- it was someone else. Race, you don't gotta do that."

Race shifted uncomfortably in his spot on the floor. "Yeah, but if he's got an issue-"

"I don't," Spot assured him. "I don't give two shits who other guys kiss, long as it's nobody I'm kissing too."

Race took a moment to look at Spot, scrutinizing him as if to see if he was telling the truth or not. "Good," he said finally, before turning back to his friend.

"Fuckin' Delanceys," Spot muttered. "Knew those bastards was homophobic."

"Why?" David asked. "Are you-"

"Don't ask me no fuckin' questions you don't want answered with a fist," Spot snapped, defensive. Race spun around and glared at him.

"Can you not right now?" he huffed, gesturing to the swollen nose and black eyes that his friend sported. Spot glared right back at him, eyes moving between Race and David, before stepping back, letting the defensiveness seep out of him. There was no apology, but Spot at least nodded apologetically toward David. That was the best either of them was going to get.

Spot watched in silence as Race continued to patch his friend up. It took a few minutes, and the boy hissed in pain every time his Race touched his nose, but soon the both of them were standing up and grabbing their bags. David was definitely taller than Spot, not by a small margin either, but he still looked wary of him, keeping his distance. He cleared his throat awkwardly, slouching as he looked at Race. "Thank you, Race," he said politely, almost proper sounding, and Spot restrained himself from raising an eyebrow. 

"It's no problem, really, Dave," Race said, busying himself with packing up the rest of the first aid kit. David gave a small smile in return, then turned to Spot with the same polite smile and nodded. And then he was gone.

It was silent in the bathroom then, just Spot standing there watching as Race closed the first aid kit, tucking it away in his bag. The pause in conversation was awkward, until Spot cleared his throat and spoke. "So how come you don't seem to know nothin' about 'round here?" he asked. 

Race glanced at him but looked away quickly, walking over to the sinks and turning the water on, putting his hands under the stream. "I just transferred here about two weeks ago." He didn't offer any further explanation, and Spot didn't feel like asking for one. Race finished washing his hands, dried them off on his jeans, and looked over at Spot. "What don't I all know?"

Spot shrugged. "Stuff about the Delanceys. How they'll soak just about anyone."

"Mhm," Race nodded eyeing Spot. "Why'd Davey seem scared of you?"

Spot scoffed. "You've got nerve, askin' me questions like that."

"Like I said," Race told him, the look in his eyes almost challenging. "You ain't punched me yet."

This surprised a snort out of Spot, who smoothly tried to cover it up with a cough. "Yeah, sure," he grumbled, rolling his eyes. "I got a bit of a tough guy reputation."

"Like the Delanceys?" Race asked.

"Don't compare me to those motherfuckers," Spot huffed. "Yeah, I'm loose with my fists, but you ain't gotta worry unless you're coming after me first."

"Well good, 'cuz I ain't planning on going after you," Race said. And Spot took a moment to look at Race- actually look at him, not just glare at him or glance and then look away. Race held himself confidently, blue eyes twinkling with mischief and mouth pulled up at one end in a way that made him seem like he knew something Spot didn't, though Spot had no clue what that could be. His blonde hair was short, but still long enough to be a mess of curls. He was wringing his hands again, though he didn't seem to be nervous- tapping his fingers on the back of his hands, rubbing his thumb against his palm, restless. It was like he couldn't not be moving. 

"Race," Spot began. "Is that your real name?"

"Is your real name Spot?" Race asked. Spot felt himself clam up, almost snap at the other boy, before he realized what he'd done. Race grinned at him, bright and wide and mischievous. "See you later, Spotty." And before Spot could protest the nickname, Race was out the door.

*****

As it turns out, Spot didn't actually see Race again until the first day of second semester, almost a month later. Sure, they'd passed each other in the halls a few times, but that had resulted in nothing more than a small wave on Race's part, and a gruff nod of recognition on Spot's. But with new class schedules, Spot wasn't as surprised as he should have been when he noticed Race walk into his European History class just before the bell rang, hands fidgeting and eyes scanning the room. His gaze landed on Spot and they made eye contact, a small smile making its way onto Race's face.

"Hey," he said, walking over to Spot. "Can I sit here?" He gestured to one of the empty seats near Spot, who simply nodded his head with a soft grunt. Race accepted this response enthusiastically, sitting down in the seat to Spot's right and getting out his notebook. "Thanks."

"Yeah, whatever," Spot says, as the teacher stands up and begins to call attendance. Spot pays attention until 'Sean Conlon' is called, and he throws up a hand. Race looks over at him and grins.

"Sean, huh?"

Spot turns and gives him a glare. "Don't even think about it." Spot waits until Race's name is called, turns and kicks him in the leg when he responds to 'Anthony Higgins'. "And here you're giving me shit for Sean?"

Race shrugged, but weirdly enough, he doesn't meet Spot's eyes. "Ha. Yeah." Spot doesn't know if something is wrong or not, and he would rather not pry, so he opts not to respond. 

*****

Sitting next to Race in class means that Spot learns a lot about him, even if they don't talk all the time. Race was interesting, to say the least. All his clothes were brand name, Spot noticed, but he didn't seem to have a lot of them, seeming to prefer wearing the same outfits on a rotation that started over after the weekend. He had an iPhone and expensive pens and five star folders and an pricey looking pencil case, but his backpack was old and fraying at the bottom corners. Race was confident, smart, and talked enough for the both of them in class, keeping the teacher off Spot's case even if that wasn't his intention. His eyes shone bright when he was praised, and his nose twitched when he got upset after getting a question wrong. Race was friendly if not distant with Spot, and despite his amicable personality, he didn't seem to have any other friends in the class. 

Spot and Race had developed a strange sort of acquaintanceship. Race would chat with Spot in the time before class, about books and TV and video games and school. Spot learned that Race was a mathlete and on the track team, and Race had weaseled it out of Spot that he was on the baseball team. Sometimes Spot would listen, and occasionally he would talk back, adding his own input on whatever Race was talking about. Race never talked about himself outside of school, and he never expected Spot to either. Race would find Spot in the bathroom sometimes, nursing bloody knuckles or a black eye, and he would pull out his first aid kit without a word, handing it to Spot. Sometimes, if Spot was having trouble, he'd hand it back to Race, and threaten him twenty times over that if he ever told anyone that Spot Conlon needed help patching up he was dead. Sometimes, Spot wasn't in class, because it was the last class of the day and he skipped sometimes, but when he came back Race would always have a copy of the previous day's notes already sitting on his desk. Spot had only thanked him the first time, but he knew that Race knew he was grateful, even if he'd only said it once.

Sometimes, though, Race would come into class and he wouldn't say anything. He'd give Spot a little half-smile, lips pressed together and blue eyes dull, then quietly sit down in his desk and wait for class to start, his nose twitching every few seconds or so. 

The first time it had happened, Spot hadn't known what to do. There hadn't been a day that Race hadn't come into class, boisterously referred to him as Spotty, and then launched into a description of the latest book he was reading, or last nights episode of whatever show he was into, or the piles of homework he'd gotten from his math teacher. But Race had walked into class, head down and mouth a straight line, sliding into his seat with only a short glance and nod in Spot's direction. 

The silence was eerie, and Spot decided he didn't like it. He and Race weren't friends, at least he didn't think so, but there was something wrong about the way that Race seemed to shrink in on himself in his desk, the way that he hadn't started rambling to Spot the moment he sat down. Spot decided that with Race, he didn't much like the silence. So he filled it himself.

"I watched the Red Sox game last night, and I don't know what those idiots were thinking but they really struck out, huh?" Spot started. He didn't ask Race if he was okay, because Race didn't seem to want to talk. So he just... talked. "They went into the ninth inning 0-7, can you believe that? What a joke." Race had looked up at Spot like he knew exactly what he was doing, and Spot noticed with what might have been relief that as he continued to talk, Race's shoulder's relaxed and he stopped pursing his lips so tightly.

So the routine changed on those days that Race didn't want to speak, or couldn't, but Spot never asked about it or pried, just started talking about the last baseball game he'd seen, insult the players, and watch carefully to see if Race's mouth would quirk up at the corner like it sometimes did. 

By the time class was over, Race still hadn't said much, but he was taking his notes and paying attention and he would smile softly at Spot when he grumbled under his breath about the coursework. When the bell rang, and the room filled with the noise and chatter of the class packing up to leave, Race reached over and tapped his fingers against the surface of Spot's desk. "Thanks." That was all he said, quiet as a mouse and not even looking at Spot when he said it, but it was the most genuine interaction Spot had had with anyone in a long time. 

*****

One time, purely by accident, Spot ended up walking with Race after class. They'd been talking- well, Race had mostly been talking, and Spot had been listening, occasionally interjecting with a comment or two, and Race hadn't stopped when the bell rang, so Spot just kind of... followed him. Race kept talking, gesturing wildly with his hands, smiling so big and Spot really couldn't ask him to stop. So he followed Race to his locker, where he switched out his books and grabbed his windbreaker and then Race followed Spot to his locker, where he didn't bother with his books and just threw on his jacket, and then the two of them made their way to the exit.

"And I didn't even know that Doctor Who had books! I feel like such a fake fan, like, where have these been all my life?" Race was saying, and Spot stepped forward to push open the door, holding it open a little longer than necessary so that Race could slip through. "Thanks! But I'm on the second book already, and it's so good, Spotty-" Suddenly, Race is distracted by something across the parking lot. "Oh, shit. Me- my mom is here, I, um. Gotta go." His huge smile faltered only for a moment, before coming right back in full force. "Well, I'll see you tomorrow!" 

Spot watched as Race ran across the parking lot (he'd asked before if that's why he was called Race, though Race insisted that it wasn't because he was fast, and that that had just been a coincidence) toward wherever his mother was parked. Spot watched Race climb into a new, expensive looking SUV and begin to greet someone, closing the door behind him. Spot watched as the SUV drove away. He ignored the tiny part of him that wished that Race could have stayed and talked longer.

He was getting soft.

*****

Two months into second semester and whatever odd friendship Spot had with Race, their teacher announced that the final would be a partner project, a research project where each partnership had to make a video about a historical figure of their choosing. 

Spot didn't know why he was surprised when Race turned to him with a smile and asked, "Wanna be partners?" Spot didn't know how he felt about the fact that he was less surprised that he accepted the offer. 

"You'll have some class time set aside to work on this project, but this project will largely be done outside of school, so I would work with your partner to coordinate a schedule, or find a time when you both are free," the teacher explained, and Spot was trying to think of any historical figure that wasn't featured in _Hamilton_ that they could do their project on. "I'll pass out the instruction sheets in a few moments after everyone gets situated with a partner."

Race turned to Spot, looking like he already had an idea. "Do you know anyone who you might want to do the project on?"

Spot raised an eyebrow in response to Race's eager persona. "Do _you_?" he asked, and Race shrugged, then nodded, and then shrugged again.

"Well, I mean- kind of... you can say no if you want!" Race said. "But I was thinking, maybe we could do Anne Lister?"

Spot pursed his lips, trying to remember the name. "Anne Lister... that's the uh?"

"First modern lesbian," Race informed him excitedly. "She kept a diary in code and everything, she's a fucking icon."

"Huh," Spot said. "I mean, I can't think of anyone so why not, yeah?" Race smiled wide and pumped a fist in the air.

"Hell yeah," he said. He turned to his desk and got his pen out, writing 'Anne Lister' on the top of a blank page. Then, he looked back up at Spot. "So... where should we work on it that's not in class?" he asked.

Spot was quick to say, "We can't at my house," and Race nodded. 

"Same, not unless my-" he paused, eyebrows pulling together, "my... parents are gone." Spot felt a soft pang of jealousy in his chest at the phrase 'parents', used as a plural, but he kept it to himself. He also didn't mention the curious uncertainty that Race had shown speaking of his parents. 

"We can go to the library," Spot decided. A nice, neutral place where nobody had to meet anybody's family. Yeah, cool.

Race nodded. "Or... um, there's somewhere else we can go? My- mom, she owns a house not too far from the school, said it's for me an' my siblings to use if we ever need it, you know? I have a key so... if you didn't want to go to the library, we could just do that?"

Race seemed hesitant to bring it up, and even more hesitant mentioning his siblings, but all Spot could focus on was that Race's mother owned a _second_ house. So Race was _rich_, rich. Despite the sudden feeling of Race being slightly more untouchable than he was before, Spot found that he didn't mind much. Race had never once mentioned it before, never bragged or boasted or made Spot feel less than him. It was almost as if Race wasn't aware that he had money. "Yeah, sure," Spot answered, shrugging noncommittally. Race nodded, smiling awkwardly. 

"Er... we should probably exchange numbers?" he suggested, though it came out as more of a question. "So we can like... communicate. And stuff." 

"Yeah," Spot grunted, pulling out his phone and opening it to the contacts app. "Here, put your number in or whatever." Race took Spot's phone with a smile, entering his number, before suddenly he was leaning close to Spot with the camera facing the two of them.

"Smile, Spotty!" he said, throwing up a peace sign as he took a picture. Spot blinked at the camera, unsure of what to do, and just as suddenly as he had leaned in, Race was pulling away, tapping away at Spot's phone. "There, I set it as my contact picture, and I sent it to myself! Now I have your number too." Race pulled out his own phone, wiggling it to show the text notification on his screen, the one from Spot's number. Spot rolled his eyes and reached out, snatching his phone back.

"Warn a guy next time you wanna take a selfie," he grumbled, tucking his phone away in his bag. Race just grinned at him.

"Next time?"

"Shut up."

*****

When Spot went over to Race's house (or rather, the unused house that his mother owned) to work on the project, Race met him at the bus stop a few blocks away. It was the beginning of spring, still cold enough that jackets were still needed, and Race was standing there when he got off the bus with his hand in his jacket pockets, golden curls peaking out from underneath a knitted hat, cheek and nose red from the cold. "It's just a couple of blocks that way," Race gestured with his shoulder, not willing to subject his bare hands to the cold. Spot nodded and trailed after him as he set the pace, walking confidently along the edge of the road. 

"Come to the sidewalk," Spot called to him, glaring at the slush that lined the roads. There was a car coming.

Race looked back, throwing his signature troublemaker-grin over his shoulder. "You worried?" he asked. Spot didn't answer, just shrugged and looked away. 

When they got to Race's house a few minutes later, Spot had to clench his jaw to keep it from dropping. Walking up the front steps, you'd think a family of ten lived in this place. Race fitted his key into the lock and turned it, opening the door and holding it so that Spot could enter first. "Thanks," Spot coughed.

The inside of the house was just as big as you would imagine it was from looking at the outside. Polished wood, nice furniture, although it was sparse. Shit looked straight out of a home and garden magazine. "Sorry it's..." Race was shrinking in on himself, looking embarrassed. "It's really big." Spot scoffed. That much was obvious, but it was clear that Race wasn't bragging. When he took off his hat, his ears were red with blush and he avoided Spot's gaze.

"It's a house," Spot reminded him, deadpan, like he didn't care. Because he _didn't_. "A fuckin' nice one, too. Don't say sorry, dipshit."

Race winced, but he chanced a look over at Spot, sending him a nervous grin. "Sorry."

Spot smacked him on the arm. "What did I just say?" Race froze, just noticeable, pressing his hand to the spot that Spot had touched.

"Uh," he said. His mouth opened, then closed, then he turned away and awkwardly tugged his coat off. "We can go upstairs." Spot raised an eyebrow at the odd behavior, but followed him upstairs nonetheless.

He cleared his throat as the pair of them turned into what was obviously a lounge area, with a table, a couch and chairs, and a smaller coffee table. Race put his backpack down at the foot of the coffee table, before walking over to a cabinet and opening it up. Suddenly, a familiar smell hit Spot's nose and his eyebrows shot up.

Spot watched as Race pulled a bong out of the cabinet, glancing warily over to Spot. "Er, you don't mind, do you?"

Amused, and not at all having expected this, Spot shook his head. "I'm not gonna stop you." He gestured to the coffee table, and Race took it as an invitation to reach back into the cabinet, grab a small Tupperware container full of weed, and walk back toward Spot, placing the weed and the bong on the table as he approached, sitting on the couch.

Always one to be prepared, Race reached into his pocket and pulled out a lighter. Spot watched as he opened the container and pulled out a grinder and went to work. "You can have some if you want," Race offered, twisting his arms with the grinder. He wasn't looking at Spot.

"You are one of the last people I would've expected to smoke," Spot admitted, a hint of laughter almost recognizable in his voice. He watched as Race began to pack the bowl, obviously knowing what he was doing. "And you ain't new at this, either."

"Yeah, well," Race started, and then seemed to think better of it. He cleared his throat, pulling the bong closer to himself and flicking on the lighter. Spot looked at him as he inhaled, his deft fingers removing the slip as he pulled the rest of the smoke into his lungs, holding it for a few moments before blowing it out, almost teasingly, in Spot's direction. Spot felt a shiver down his spine and Race smiled, looking almost nervous. "Your turn?"

Spot eyed the bong, then Race, then the bong again, before shrugging and holding out his hand. "Why the fuck not," he conceded. Spot grabbed the lighter from the table before sitting on the couch as well and taking a hit, feeling the sharp burn at the back of his throat and the hotness in his lungs. He leaned back, pushing the smoke from his lungs, and suddenly he let out a cough, that sharp feeling traveling to the base of his throat. "So are we-" he paused, clearing his throat to get rid of the sudden hoarseness of it, "So are we gonna work on this project high, or?"

Race seemed to contemplate it before shrugging. "We don't have to. We can, but we've got two months 'till this things is due, so..." he gestured to the paraphernalia on the table. "We can just do this if you want."

"Yeah, sure, whatever," Spot said, handing the bong back to Race. For some reason, Race had more weed than any person needed, and after a while of passing the bong back and forth, both boys were considerably high. 

Race placed the bong back on the table with an air of finality before falling back into the cushions of the couch, exhaling the last of his smoke through a lazy smile. Spot agreed with that smile. He felt like that too. Like a lazy smile. He felt his own face pulled back into a grin, and despite trying not to, Spot couldn't _not_ smile. Race rolled his head to the right so that his cheek rested against the back of the couch, looking at Spot.

"You're smiling," Race said, and his words were coming out much slower now, like the words were being pulled out of his mouth instead of pushed. "You never smile."

"Now I do," Spot shrugged, and that smile stayed on his face. 

"I guess," Race said, and suddenly he was shifting, laying down across the couch, letting the back of his head fall against the top of Spot's thigh. "You don't mind, do you?"

If he had been sober, Spot most definitely would have pushed Race off with a scowl and told him that he didn't do that touchy feely bullshit. But Spot was not sober, and his filter was almost gone, and so he said, "Nah. Go ahead."

Race giggled, and he reached up to pat Spot's cheek with his long fingers. "You're a good pillow," he announced, letting his hands fall back to his side. They stayed like that for a while, Race staring up at the ceiling and fidgeting with the hem of his shirt while Spot stared at Race. There was a moment where he felt his hand drifting, fingers pushing into Race's soft curls, and Race pushed his head further into Spot's hand. "Aw, I feel like a cat."

"Meow," Spot said seriously, and he giggled. Race looked up at him in awe.

"You fucking _giggled_," he said gleefully, and then, just as happily, he stated, "And I'm fucking high." Race shifted positions, making as if he were about to get up. "Wanna order food?"

Spot considered it, hoped that Race was paying, and said "Yeah, sure. Get whatever you want 'cuz i'll eat anything."

"Alright," Race said, sitting up and reaching for his phone. Spot barely had time to miss his warmth before Race leaned back, pressing himself against Spot's side as he opened up the Dominoes app. "Any allergies? Preferences? Just letting you know, though, mushrooms are forbidden."

Spot didn't have a preference. Right then, all he could think of was Race, pressed against his side and ordering pizza, Race, who was sharing his weed and his house and who he was supposed to be working on a history project with, Race, who was tilting his head to the side so it rested on Spot's shoulder. 

All he could think of was Race.

Fuck.

*****

After that, things shifted between Spot and Race. Before, there had been some sort of invisible line that they'd stayed behind. Their friendship had been a strictly-in-class-and-the-occasional-bathroom endeavor, but now, their conversations spilled into other times. Walking with each other in the halls, texting, eating lunch together sometimes, hanging out for reasons other than homework. 

Spot had had friends before, but Race was different. Race was infectious. He was smiley and funny and tactile, and Spot allowed it all. Race would press their shoulders together in the hall, ruffle Spot's hair in class, throw his arm around Spot's shoulder at lunch, and Spot wouldn't pull away or glare or groan, would just lean into it like there was nothing else he could do. 

And other people started to take notice as well. If Spot Conlon was infamous as one of the toughest guys in school, then Race was famous for being the one who'd tamed him. Race was Spot's best friend, anybody could see. Spot Conlon doesn't smile at anyone except Race, Spot Conlon eats lunch alone unless he's with Race, Spot Conlon would knock your teeth in if you messed with Race. Just more facts of the universe, and Spot was okay with people knowing that. Because that meant that Race was real, and his friend, and everyone else besides him knew it too. 

And if, deep down, Spot maybe wanted something more, wanted Race to press more than just their shoulders together, well.

That was a fact that he didn't need to share with the universe. That one, he was okay keeping to himself.

But Spot and Race had grown closer, and everybody knew it. The two were inseparable- the loner and the new kid. Spot could honestly say that he was happy, that he had a part of his life for himself and it made him happy. He had a friend. He had Race.

And of course, that's when the trouble started.

*****

Spot leaned against the sink, knuckles throbbing as he put his weight on his hands, pressing his forehead against the mirror. His head was a mess of static and waves, anger turning his vision red, making his skin crawl, making him hot hot hot-

"Spotty, are you in here? I got your text, are-" Race came barreling into the bathroom and Spot cricked his neck turning to look at him. Race paused when he noticed Spot, saw the angry, lost expression on his face and the blood on his fists. "Oh, Spotty. What did you do?" Spot didn't answer, just looked down at the sink and glared at the drain. It was silent for a moment, before he heard Race sigh, unzipping his backpack. He heard the familiar sound of Race's first aid kit being opened, heard the sound of Race rummaging through it. 

Because Spot didn't answer, Race stayed quiet, not prying as he approached Spot, holding his hand out patiently. Spot reluctantly moved his hand to rest on top of Race's, allowing the boy to take a wet wipe and dab at the cuts on his fingers. Diligently, Spot clenched his teeth to stop himself from hissing in pain. The two of them stood in silence, Race taking the time to wrap a few band aids around Spot's fingers before gingerly taking his other hand and beginning to repeat the cleaning process.

"Did you at least win?" Race asked. Spot could tell that he was trying to sound nonchalant, but the worry was there, seeping in underneath his tone. 

Spot grunted. "Yeah." He didn't say anything further than that, but he could feel how much Race wanted to ask, who was it, why, what happened. So he grumbled, kicking his toes into the ground. "It was the Delanceys again," he huffed. 

"You can't let them get to you, they're just gonna keep coming, Spotty," Race chided him, dabbing gently at his knuckles. Spot felt his chest tighten, finding it a little harder to breathe. 

"It wasn't for me," Spot mumbled, so soft and low that Race could probably barely hear it. But he did.

Race slowed his work, looking up at Spot with confusion in his eyes. "Not for you?" he asked. "Spot, what does that mean?"

Spot half shrugged, rolling his shoulder in a lame attempt to stretch it. "The Delanceys, they was doing the usual stuff, givin' me shit for this and that, and I was gonna ignore them, I really was, but-" Spot paused, clenching his jaw. "They started saying stuff about you, too."

Now, Race paused altogether, his brow furrowing at Spot's words. "What- what kind of stuff?"

"Nothing nice, whaddya think?" Spot grunted. "They was calling you all sorts of stuff, fag and tranny and other shit, and they don't even know if you are- which doesn't matter, and those aren't the right words, but-"

"Right or wrong words, doesn't matter if they're true or not," Race said, pulling his hands away from Spot's. He glanced at Spot, and Spot saw that his eyes were deadly serious. "Spot. Thank you for standing up for me, and I appreciate it, I do, but I'm not worth getting in trouble over like that." Spot opened his mouth to protest, but Race cut him off. "Spot, if they went to the principal you could've been suspended. It's not worth it. Not for me, not over a few stupid words."

"But they're not just stupid words!" Spot snapped, and Race blinked at him. "Race, I couldn't just stand there and listen to them talk about you like that, you're-" my best friend, Spot wanted to say. But he stopped himself there. "It's not right. They shouldn't be able to do that."

"You're right, they shouldn't," Race said, with conviction, "But you shouldn't be able to just beat up anybody you disagree with. It doesn't matter who's right and who's wrong, Spot, you're going to get in trouble."

Spot glared at Race, unable to understand why he wasn't on his side. "Maybe you're worth the trouble."

Race winced, actually winced, and Spot felt something pull hard on his heart. "Spot, no I'm not. Not for you. Not for anyone."

And Spot's vision went red, because the way Race said it- he knew he didn't mean it like that, but just for a moment, it sounded like- pity. Spot scoffed. "Just because you've had everything handed to you on a silver platter, doesn't mean-"

And Race's face changed so fast then that Spot found the rest of his sentence escaping him. Whatever Race had been before- angry, upset, worried- now he was just... blank. All the expression was gone from his face, and in Spot's opinion, it was scarier than seeing him angry. "Don't you assume _nothin'_ about me, Spot Conlon," Race spat through his teeth, his voice just above a whisper. He sounded furious, more furious than Spot had ever imagined he could be.

And then, as quick as he had rushed in in the first place, Race was gone.

*****

Race wasn't in history that day, and he wasn't at school the next day. He hadn't answered Spot's messages, but Spot knew that he'd read them. 

Spot knew he'd fucked up, but he wasn't sure how. He hadn't expected Race to react so vehemently, hadn't foreseen just how much one phrase could change the course of a friendship. Silver platter, Spot thought. Fucking silver platter.

All Spot knew was that he would probably do anything to make it up to Race. Because as much as Spot hated to admit it, he needed Race. Even as a friend, Race was what kept him sane. Race was just _good_\- there was no other word for it. And now that good was gone.

Which is how Spot found himself standing outside of Race's mom's second house, holding two everything pizzas and praying that Race was here, and not at his actual house, because he still didn't know where that was. Holding the pizzas in one hand, Spot rang the doorbell, waiting and hoping for an answer. 

His hopes skyrocketed when he heard the pitter patter of feet coming down the stairs, heard the clink of a hand on the doorknob, watched the door inch itself open, so that Race was staring at him through the doorway. His hair was messy and his eyes were glassy and red, though he smelled strongly of weed, so Spot couldn't tell you for what reason. But Race... he looked kinda of like a mess. 

Spot swallowed down the thought that he was still beautiful.

Race looked at Spot with a blank stare, and Spot looked back, guilt and hope and regret swimming in his eyes. Pathetically, Spot raised the hand with the pizza boxes in it. "I brought pizza," he said lamely. 

Race glanced down at the pizza, then back up at Spot. "I don't owe you anything," he said, harsh and angry, and he sounded hurt. 

"No you don't," Spot agreed. "But I owe _you_. So, here." He pushed the pizza toward Race, who tentatively accepted it, still looking at Spot like he'd slapped him. 

It was silent for a long moment, before suddenly Race stepped back. "I can't eat this by myself," he announced. That was as much of an invitation that Spot was going to get, he decided as Race turned around and headed for the stairs, so he simply stepped inside, closed the door behind him and followed. 

They went up the stairs into the lounge, where Race already had an ashtray sitting out, a half smoked blunt resting against the side. Race picked it up as soon as he set the pizza down, lighting it and inhaling deep. Spot watched Race hold it, put the joint back to his lips, inhale again, hold it some more. Holding it, holding it, holding it.

"That's bad for your lungs," Spot told him, like he didn't already know.

Race finally exhaled, paired with a hefty bout of coughing. When he was done, he pressed his palms to his eyes, purposely not looking at Spot. "I can just pick some new ones up off that silver platter of mine, though." There was no mistaking the bitterness of his tone.

Spot sucked in a breath. "Race, I didn't-"

"No, Spot, you didn't," Race interrupted him, taking his face away from his hands so that he could look at Spot, his red rimmed eyes and disheveled hair making his heart break. "You didn't mean it, you didn't think, you didn't know anything fucking real about me when you said it, so how could you have known?" Race shuddered as he took a deep breath, averting his eyes, and Spot furrowed his brow. "You shouldn't have fucking said it. But I can't be mad. You don't know anything about my life and I can't blame you for that. But that doesn't mean it didn't hurt."

"I'm so sorry, Race," Spot said, and he didn't care that his voice cracked. "I don't want to fight, I just- I'm sorry for what I said. And did. You were-" Spot clenched his teeth. "You were right, I can't just. Fight everyone. Not even for you."

"Spot," Race said, and suddenly Spot noticed that he had tears in his eyes. "I don't owe you anything."

"Yeah, I know, Racer, I'm so sorry-"

"But I need to tell you something." Spot paused, looking at Race. 

"Yeah, anything," he said.

Race took a breath, then, almost belatedly, took another hit of his blunt. "My real mom is dead and my dad is in jail."

And that was not what Spot was expecting to hear. "What?"

"Yeah," Race confirmed, and he sounded miserable. "My parents, they're fosters. I'm a foster kid. I live with Medda Larkin and her husband Teddy. They... they foster kids who identify as LGBTQ, who've been kicked out or removed from their homes because their real parents didn't-" Race stopped. 

"Hey, it's okay," Spot tried comforting him lamely. He reached out, and to his relief, Race pressed his hand into his. 

"My dad was arrested on multiple charges of child abuse because he tried to kill me after I..." Race made a vague gesture with his free hand, which Spot interpreted as 'came out of the closet'. "He already wasn't the most gentle person, but- he walked in on me and a guy, once, and then-" he squeezed his eyes shut tight, like he was trying to block out the memory. Spot knew, he probably was. 

"Race, I'm so sorry." Spot felt like a record stuck on repeat; he couldn't think of anything useful to say, he was stuck on a scratch that left him saying the same useless words over and over again. "Fuck, I- I'm sorry. I didn't know."

Race choked on a watery laugh, his hand tightening around Spot's. "Of course you didn't. I mean, how could you? I never fucking told you anything."

"Why didn't you?" Spot asked.

His answer came in the form of a shrug. "I don't know. We just... it's how we worked. I didn't pry into your life and you didn't pry into mine. We were friends, Spotty, best friends, and I just- I was used to it. I didn't have to talk about it and... it was nice."

"You can't keep it all bottled up, Racer," Spot told him, moving from his chair to the spot on the couch next to Race.

Race scoffs, then sniffles. "Says you."

Spot bites his lip. "Yeah, says me," he mutters. "Look, this ain't about me right now, I don't wanna make this about me. But I promise, Race, if you want me to, I won't bottle it up. Okay, I'll tell you my stuff too. But later."

Race nodded and leaned sideways into Spot, resting his head on his shoulder. "God I'm a mess."

"Yeah, but it's okay," Spot said. "You're allowed to be a mess, Race."

"Thanks." And they both sat there, holding hands and leaning into each other. And it was nice. Race didn't want to smile and he didn't have to, and Spot just held Race where he was and that was enough. After a while, though, Race gave a quiet sniffle and began to lean away. "Do you wanna eat that pizza now?" he asked. 

"Yeah, sure," Spot said. "Can I have a hit of that blunt?"

Race looked over at him, and the barest of smiles curved his lips upward. "Yeah, sure."

*****

Spot was laying back against the armrest of the couch, with his legs spread so that Race's body was situated between them, his head resting against Spot's collarbone and his arms splayed out on either side of him. Somehow, after the rest of the blunt and the pizza, the two boys had readjusted themselves to be in this position. Spot couldn't say he minded much.

Race, who up until that point Spot had thought was asleep, tilted his head up just enough so that he could look at Spot. "Spot?" he asked.

"Yeah?" Spot answered, and he kept his gaze on the ceiling. He didn't want to move. Not even a little. 

"Thank you. For coming here today. I don't know if I could stand being mad at you for any longer than I was."

Spot couldn't help the grin that formed on his face, and this time it was only partly the weed's fault. "Yeah, same," he admitted. "I... you're the best thing I got right now. I couldn't let myself lose that." Spot saying that out loud was definitely a product of being high, but that didn't make the words any less true. "Racer, you're my best friend, you know that?"

"Yeah," Race said, and he lifted himself off of Spot's chest, staring up at him so that now Spot just had to look back at him. "I fucking love you man."

Spot felt his brain short circuit, like he suddenly couldn't think. "Oh. I- uh. Yeah, same."

Race laughed, and another wire in Spot's head went crazy. "You don't gotta love me like that," he assured him. "For me it's both ways. You're my best friend, and I can't lose you. Cuz I love you. But also, I _love you_, you know?"

"You're high, but yeah," Spot said. "I don't- I mean, I do, I just- I don't know if-"

"You don't gotta do anything right now if you don't wanna."

Spot sat up more, holding Race against his chest so that he wouldn't slide away. "I wanna."

Race pulled back, ever so slightly, stared up at Spot with those bright blue eyes. Spot pushed his fingers into Race's curls, watching a soft smile overtake his face. "Fuckin' love it when you do that," Race said, lips loose from the weed.

"Uh huh," Spot agreed. He pulled Race closer using the hand in his hair, a gentle guide pressed against the back of his head. "This okay?"

The corner of Race's mouth pulled up as he followed where Spot's hand was leading him. "When I met you, I don't think I ever imagined you bein' like this."

Spot nodded. "You made me soft," he said.

"Hm," Race said. "Good."

And then he leaned in.


End file.
